“I will!” exclaimed Ranpo, his voice projecting far and wide. “After all, I’m the one who protects the foolish! I’m the greatest detective in the world!”
Fukuzawa returned to the dark theater hall alone.
After doing something so out of character, he felt like his head was full of bricks. He wasn’t the least bit confident what he had done was right. After all, Fukuzawa hadn’t worked this hard to do something for another person these past few years. Maybe a few days from now, he would realize that he had actually made a grave mistake and that this lie had completely ruined Ranpo. Nothing could be said for sure just yet, though. Ranpo’s smile, however, was radiant. All he could do was accept that as proof to justify what he had done.
Fukuzawa walked down the aisle while looking around. The play had already started, so everyone had their eyes glued to the stage. There was a white screen at the back of the stage that projected the background scenery. This performance used real furniture as props, such as desks and shelves, but the supplemental background was a video being projected onto a screen instead of the usual painting. It was probably to cut down on costs; the screen itself would sometimes warp like quicksand, playing a role in stage effects. Standing before the screen now was the lead, Murakami, who was facing the void alone for his performance.
It was a scene of sorrow as he pleaded to the void, apparently crying out to the angel who continued to slaughter them. If Ranpo was right, then someone was going to be murdered at some time during the play. Ranpo told Fukuzawa to stand as close to the stage as possible; if Fukuzawa was going to trust him, then that would be here. The stage was right before him.
Regardless, was the killer really going to shamelessly commit a crime in front of hundreds of people? How would they even do that? Everyone had their possessions checked at the entrance before the show, so it would have been impossible to sneak in a gun. Did they smuggle in a blowgun and darts? Even then, there was quite a distance to the stage. They would have to be as skilled as a ninja from the Sengoku period to do that. Were they going to rush the stage and kill someone, then? That would work to Fukuzawa’s benefit, since he could jump in and prevent it.
Whatever the case, this was a crucial moment. Something was about to happen here. Fukuzawa couldn’t keep his eyes off the audience for even a second. He listened carefully, but not a single voice could be heard in the crowd. All he could hear were people adjusting themselves and clearing their throats. Obviously, the young man’s voice onstage was the loudest.
“Forgive us, Warrior Angel of the Aureola! Otherwise, show yourself before us!” Murakami yelled out from center stage. His character was exhausted after wandering for years, so he was wearing a raggedy, grubby sack. Nonetheless, his eyes were ablaze at the invisible sorrow as if they were balls of life. “I am not afraid to die! If someone must be judged, then pierce my heart! Unsheathe the Heavenly Blade, which was once mine!”
Fukuzawa walked toward the audience seating while watching the performance. Murakami was good. It was clear why he said he would kill someone to master the art of performance; he excelled in his craft. He cried out as if his soul were broken; his eyes welled with emotion that seemed ready to overflow as tears of blood. There was a charm to his voice, and the silence between his lines was almost more effective than the lines themselves as he pleaded with the audience. There was not even a hint of the haughty man from the dressing room. His expression was different. His subtle habits were different. Perhaps nobody would even doubt it if someone said that was Murakami’s twin
brother. Murakami lifted his hands into the air.
“I know why you won’t show yourself! You plan on killing everyone and leaving me here alone, yes? You wanted to show me the ugliness of man as my friends doubted and despised one another, yes? Then allow me to reveal your sin! I will find the key to the heavens and expose your sin of envy to—”
Murakami suddenly paused midsentence.
A blade was piercing his chest.
It was a white blade around the length of an arm, sticking out of his sternum. His costume was marred and torn open.
The blade withdrew. Fresh blood spewed from the wound as he grunted.
And just like that, he fell forward.
Nobody moved. Nobody could react. It didn’t feel real. Everyone believed that this was part of the play. Fukuzawa, on the other hand, could feel his brain turning numb and cold.
This wasn’t in the script.
Fukuzawa rushed over almost immediately the moment Murakami fell. He sprinted to the stage and swiftly hurdled up the stairs, landing on the spotlighted center stage before running over to Murakami. The young man was lying facedown. The back of his costume was stained as the blood spread across the floor. Fukuzawa touched the blood and checked how it felt; he knew exactly how it was supposed to feel and smell. This wasn’t theatrical blood. It was real.
Murakami was no longer breathing. His face was pale and slightly twitching. Fukuzawa checked his pulse, but it was faint. If the blade passed through his back from where he was hemorrhaging, then it would be safe to say it was a fatal wound.
But…
Where was the weapon?
“Call an ambulance!” Fukuzawa yelled out to a performer in the wing. “Tell the officers in the front to seal off the exits!”
The buzzing in the audience spread like wildfire.
What happened? What in the world happened to him?
Fukuzawa looked around. He had checked the stage front to back once already. There was no device that could have shot a blade. And yet, Murakami was impaled. Fukuzawa couldn’t possibly have overlooked a blade even if it had appeared for only a moment. However, there was no weapon anywhere in sight.
It was as if he were stabbed by an invisible angel.
“An angel shall bring death, in the truest sense of the word, to the performer.”
There was no weapon onstage. Fukuzawa checked underneath Murakami’s body, but…nothing. Maybe above? Fukuzawa swiftly looked up. A row of white lights hanging above the stage was making it hard to see the catwalk, but he caught a glimpse of a metal boxlike object reflecting the light. Was it some kind of device? It was positioned right above Murakami. Did a blade drop from there?
However, the device almost immediately vanished into the darkness. Was someone up there? No, if anyone was there, Fukuzawa would have seen them regardless of how dark it was in the rafters. Then where was the killer? Suddenly, Fukuzawa thought back to what Ranpo had told him.